


Labor of Love

by mako_lies (wingeddserpent)



Category: Free!
Genre: Cooking Lessons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/mako_lies
Summary: Five people who tried to teach Makoto to cook. (Or: Makoto has always been better at taking care of other people than himself.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chezmeralda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chezmeralda/gifts).



> I'm not sure if this is exactly what you wanted, but I hope that you like it~!

I.

His last year of junior high school, his parents take a trip to Amami Island and don’t take the twins. Which naturally means that Makoto has to stay home to watch them. Which is fine, because it’s only a few days, and Haru will come over to help. Really, it’s a good excuse to spend time with his siblings and Haru. He actually looks forward to it.

The twins are curled up watching cartoons when there’s a knock on the door. Haru stands in the doorway and blinks at him with puffy eyes, sniffling in the chill wind. Makoto reaches out to feel his forehead. It’s burning up. His throat catches, because with Haru’s grandmother so sick—will anybody be able to take of Haru? “Oh, Haru-chan, you went swimming in the ocean again, didn’t you?” Makoto barely has to ask. Haru coughs wetly. “It’s okay. You should go home and sleep. I can watch the twins myself.”

Haru even forgets to grouse about the ‘chan’ thing as his mouth quirks in gratitude. In an ideal world, Makoto could go and take care of Haru, too, but Haru’s been touchy about it lately. With his grandma so sick, Makoto can’t exactly blame him. Makoto is left to make curry and rice for the kids himself and—well. Makoto stares down at the almost-crunchy rice and the watery curry. The twins laugh and laugh at their plates. So they wind up with sandwiches from the konbini instead. It isn’t a total disaster.

A week later, his dad calls him into the kitchen where the twins are sitting expectantly, giggly. Dread fills him. Is his dad about to lay into him? But no. His dad just smiles and says, “How about we show you how to use the rice cooker properly?” and Makoto’s face is _burning_ as Ren oh so helpfully demonstrates how to turn it on.

It’s Ran who shows him how to wash the rice, and he’s so red he could _cry_ , but his dad puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Everyone has to learn sometime. Let them feel like they’re helping their big brother, all right?” The last is whispered, and well—Ren and Ran _do_ look happy.

“Okay.” Makoto grins. “What’s next?”

II.

“Why?” asks Haru when Makoto asks. His face and voice are both flat enough Makoto wants to wince with it. “It’s faster if I do it. You _like_ when I cook.” Like somehow he’s insulted Haru’s cooking.

Ever since his grandmother died, Haru has been harder to talk to. When he bothers to talk at all, it’s harsher than Makoto’s used to. Not that he can blame Haru. So while Makoto considers pushing, he nods instead. He settles in to watch as Haru expertly slices through the daikon.

It’s probably better this way. It was Haru’s grandmother who taught him to cook. Better for Makoto to not intrude on it.

III.

Rin bullies Makoto into the kitchen with his fiercest scowl. “It’s going to be our last year of high school, Makoto! You have to be able to make more than bentos.” He narrows his eyes.

All Makoto can do is put up his hands in surrender. Ever since the relay, Rin’s been pretty aggressively trying to be friends again. Like Makoto and Nagisa and Rei and Haru have to be convinced to forgive him. Like they haven’t already forgiven him. But Rin keeps pushing and grasping, and Makoto finds it’s easier to give than try to convince Rin he already loves him. So Makoto lets himself be bullied to learn about about cooking. Or something. It’s probably not about cooking at all, to be honest.

Here they are: in Makoto’s kitchen (because Rin refuses to have anyone over to his house, and Makoto’s throat closes up before he can ask what Rin’s afraid of them seeing. Maybe the past few years have been forgiven, but they’re not forgotten. Rin could cut them all out again, if he wanted.) Rin dumps the bag on the counter to reveal spaghetti noodles, tomato sauce, some nearly-empty spice jars, and some garlic cloves that look as though they’ve nearly had it.

“Spaghetti is the easiest thing in the world,” Rin declares with a toothy-smirk.

“Did you learn in Australia?” Makoto can’t help it. Maybe he’s grasping too—grasping to understand the part of Rin’s life he’s not supposed to ask about. “Sorry. Never mind, I—“

Rin cuts him off with a softening of his grin. “Yeah. My host parents taught me. I’d make it sometimes on weekends for them. It was—Well, anyways. I couldn’t find all the ingredients, but… _she’ll be right_.” The last words said in English, and Makoto can only nod, because he’s not sure what Rin means exactly, or who she is, but Rin seems happy enough. “So, uh. First you boil some water. You _can_ do that much, can’t you?”

Of course he can. Makoto smiles as he fires up the stove. Maybe Rin can’t talk about what happened in Australia yet, but he can share this piece of with Makoto. It doesn’t even matter that Makoto leaves the noodles in a touch too long and doesn’t use enough of the garlic. Rin looks as happy as Makoto feels. Even his family agrees that the spaghetti is a success.

“Thanks, Rin,” he says, as Rin leans awkwardly at the door. “I really enjoyed it. Um. If you want to, why don’t you come over again? We can play video games or something?”

“Sure.” Rin grins. He holds onto the tupperware tightly. “Ae you sure you want _me_ to take this to Haru? _You_ made it, after all.”

Makoto shakes his head. “He’ll be glad to see you.”

And if Rin smiles gratefully? Well. That’s what friends are for. To give you a push when you need it most.

IV.

“I forgot that you can cook,” Makoto has to admit. He fits badly on Sousuke’s stool—his legs are too long, the thing wobbles, his knees barely fit beneath the counter. “Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought, because maybe it’s insulting. He doesn’t actually know Sousuke well enough to know what is and is not acceptable to say to him.

Sousuke gives a one-shouldered shrug. This kitchen is too small for him, but Makoto glances at the studio apartment and thinks maybe the whole thing is too small for someone like Sousuke. He’s always had the impression that, for all Sousuke’s size and personality, there’s something about him that content to melt back into the scenery. Probably why Makoto hasn’t seen him since high school. Not that were every particularly close, but—Makoto liked to think of them as friends. Makoto’s first time back to Iwatobi without Haru, and he’d run into Sousuke at the train station. To say he’d be been surprised when Sousuke’d invited him to dinner didn’t quite cover it.

“How have you been?” Makoto asks, resting his forearms on the counter while Sousuke sets the rice cooker.

:Fine.” Sousuke frowns as he grabs eggs, sauces, vegetables—Makoto has to admit he’s starving. “Yourself?”

“No complaints. School is busy, but I like what I’m doing, so—“ But Sousuke stills for just a second over dinner, and Makoto shuts his big mouth so quickly his teeth clack. He has no idea what Sousuke’s been doing since school, if he’s happy, or—anything.

The silence is awkward. Being friends with Haru means Makoto knows a lot about silences, and this one is absolutely awkward. He opens his mouth to ask what Sousuke does now, but Sousuke beats him to it with a smile. “Teaching, right? Kisumi never stops talking about how you helped his brother.” He glances over shoulder so casually. “All right, Makoto-sensei. Do you know how to make omurice?”

Makoto blinks at the sudden shift, then grins. “Nope. Care to teach me?”

He doesn’t bring it up again as Sousuke shows him how to cook omurice. Whatever Sousuke is doing with his life, whatever he feels like he’s not doing (which, Makoto hazards a guess that’s the real problem), it’s obvious he doesn’t want Makoto to pry into it. Maybe the result of Makoto’s efforts is more like chicken rice with ketchup and bits of egg thrown in than actual omurice, but Sousuke smiles at him anyway. And that’s better than any question Makoto might ask.

“Hey,” Makoto hesitates at the door, flushing. “Would it—could I maybe get your number? I don’t—I don’t want to lose track of you again.” There’s something about this empty apartment, the un-lived feel to it, the sharpness around Sousuke’s eyes when he smiles like he doesn’t often have cause to—Makoto feels like maybe, maybe if he could just get a foot in the door, he could—he could help, even just a little.

Sousuke’s eyes widen in surprise, before he almost _beams_. (And, wow, wow, to be so surprised someone wants to spend time with you. Makoto can say with absolute certainty he knows how that feels, and _aches_ for Sousuke.) “Sure. That’d be fine.”

V.

Haru’s been gone nearly a week—first an impromptu visit to Iwatobi, then a swim meet in Kyushu. Normally, when he feels this heavy, like he is moving while invisible hands press constantly against his chest, he spends time with Haru, and any longing for Iwatobi he feels evaporates. But without Haru. With spring bright on the horizon. All he can think about is how much he wants to curl up with his siblings and hang out. School makes it impossible. So here he is, alone in his apartment, staring at his kitchen like food will somehow appear and make him feel better.

That’s when it hits him. Whenever he was upset or anything, his mom used to make keihan. Maybe that could help? Since Haru isn’t here?

Like an adult, he finds a recipe that doesn’t seem that difficult. He spends an hour at the store hunting down ingredients (and helping an elderly man pull down food from the top shelves). The whole time, pride glows in his chest enough to make the hands go away. Makoto feels lighter than he has in months.

Then he gets home with the bags of ingredients and the recipe on his phone and he—and he—he stops. He stops as the hands come back even fiercer, so much he can hardly breathe. His throat closes up.

His mom spent so much time in the kitchen when she made keihan. Just like her grandfather used to make. The recipe handed down so importantly. And here is Makoto, thinking he can make everything go away with one trip to the store, one recipe that isn’t even his mother’s. Even if he could cook, which he remembers too late that he _can’t_ , he could never make it taste like hers.

Even if he could, what’s bothering him isn’t hunger. And what used to comfort him about keihan wasn’t the food itself.

Makoto hits up the konbini for oden instead.

VI.

“Busy?” Haru asks Makoto, smiling at the entry way.

Somehow, Makoto had known Haru would be over tonight, so he’s already finished his homework. He smiles, shaking his head. “Not at all. Did you want to go out for dinner, or…?” With Haru’s swimming schedule, they don’t get to spend as much time together this week. Looking at him now, Haru looks tired—exhausted even. Heavy bags under his eyes, hair mussed. Probably too tired to cook.

Makoto swallows down the immediate desire to ask haru if he’s okay, if he’s been sleeping, if he’s been sticking to his eating and exercising regiment. As ever, Haru doesn’t need Makoto to take care of him as much as Makoto wants to do it.

“I brought mackerel to cook. I’m going to teach you.” Haru goes straight to the kitchen without looking back.

Makoto blinks in surprise. All these years, and neither of them have brought up Haru teaching him to cook again, and now here Haru is—and Makoto’s throat catches. Because it isn’t that Makoto is the one who has to take care of Haru. No. It’s not like that—they take care of each other.

Not because they have to, but because—Makoto catches Haru smiling at him from the kitchen. Waiting.

They don’t take care of each other because they have to, but because they want to.


End file.
